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[DW] Blackthorn and Swordhand

Deathwatch Roleplaying Game RPG Play by Post Commissar Molotov Blackthorn Kill-Team Blackthorn Fantasy Flight Games Kill-Team Swordhand Swordhand

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#1426
Steel Company

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+We have arrived on site, there seems to be no signs of life or exterior signs of combat…. Will attempt forced entry shortly.++ he gave as a response to their kill team leader.

 

Switching to squad level he added, +I will attempt to land on the landing pad and enter from the top, how do the rest of you wish to proceed?+


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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#1427
Mazer Rackham

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Akkad watched the toss and resulting bang of the shovel, with growing disquiet.  He Half-heard Tyber's comments.

 

++These bastions are familiar to me.  If it is not firing on automated protocols, it should be manned.++  He stepped out of the Chimera, Cadence locked to his pack, but the Flamer slid into his hands.  He jutted his chin at the main portal.

 

++Brother Vorr, please cover me.  As Tyber lifts off, I will charge to the main entry.  Perhaps the defenders are incapacitated or have Vox failure within.++

 

And perhaps something else...

 

Akked nodded to Tyber.  ++Ready when you are, Ahu.  I want my shovel back.++

 

MR.


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#1428
Steel Company

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Tyber gave a deep laugh while lifting off to the roof top, with the words, +You can find it at the door out front!+

Coming down with a thunderous force on the landing pad he made his way to the roof top access port, taking some time to inspect it, while giving Akkad his chance to make the dash.

+Solastion, can you find the access codes to the outpost, I would rather not have to blast this door off.+ Tyber called into the wider box network.

Edited by Steel Company, 28 June 2019 - 01:20 AM.

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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#1429
Mazer Rackham

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Seeing the Ahu launch on twin columns of blasting, furnace heat, the Astral Claw trusted to Vorr and the others, lurching into an ungainly run thanks to the bulky weight offset on his back and shoulders.  Clods of earth spat up behind him as the heavy sabatons cleaved the soil in deep furrows, each stride longer than a normal mortal - even one of the tallest Imperial Guardsmen put to shame.

 

A blurring sable locomotive, Akkad didn't brake that much as the distance disappeared and the main arch above the fastness door grew.

 

His shoulder guard rammed up against the ferrocrete and gouged a foot long rut as he twisted in position.

++Set!++

 

He looked for the Techmarine.

++Brother Teralil, I crave an Artisan of Mars to beseech the guardian spirit of the door.++

 

MR.


Edited by Mazer Rackham, 27 June 2019 - 07:52 PM.

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#1430
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Vorr locked his missile launcher onto his shoulder guard as Akkad sprints across the mud towards the firebase scanning the crenellations and firing slits for any sign of movement. There is nothing moving, a Tyranid infiltrator must have gotten in and overwhelmed the PDF troopers without giving any of them the chance to even open the gates and flee. He also had the feeling heavy weapons would be unusable in the outpost but at least he had his shotgun, for close encounters.

 

++No movement Akkad, we need to get inside and sweep this place.++

 

If the Techmarine couldn't open the door Vorr had a krak missile or two for it.


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"I don't need my left arm to run." - Sergeant Arkad VII Legion bad-ass.


#1431
Mazer Rackham

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++No movement Akkad, we need to get inside and sweep this place.++

 

The Red Talon was 'riding the same horse' as himself.  The thought made him grin and make a mental note to ask Tyber about the language he'd used before - now was not the time, but Akkad knew there were many different cultural ways of describing the same thing and as much as he collected battlefield trinkets, euphemisms were just as good.  He remembered Tyber had said something about being from a fishing village.  Perhaps a Waka was a net?

 

A second had passed for the thoughts to come and go.  The Astral Claw assessed the door, it was quite formidable, as expected.  If it proved recalcitrant they could open it with a Krak grenade or missile...but if the Tyranids were coming, a unit may have to be able to make a stand here.  That thought lit another fuse.

++My thanks Vorr.  I agree, although I would rather we can close the door behind us if we need to.++

 

He remembered Solastion's words about getting cut off.  Even if this place was compromised, the city was in no immediate danger from anything here.

++Let's get this over with.  We are on the clock.++

 

MR.


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#1432
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++One moment, Brother Tyber...++ responds over the vox.

 

Turning from his displays, he looked to Brother Sabaan, then the assembled mortals in the control room.

++Do we have the Door access codes for Outpost 43? My Brothers report that the site is indeed unmanned and it would make the sweep and clear all the smoother if we didn't have to tear the doors down.++


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#1433
Morovir

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Nothing. They had accomplished nothing. 

 

Teralil had ignored the jocularity of his brothers and tried to focus instead on his scanning, sure that there was some error or fault in his methodology that was blocking their progress, but to no avail. Frustrated, he slammed his fist into the hull of the Chimera.

 

When the message came in, he understood the logic behind the tasking of them to investigate the silent outpost, he was loathe to abandon their present tasking. It galled him to leave their brother behind, unremembered and rotting in the mud, but he knew that they had no choice.

 

Arriving outside the outpost, his eyes swept the battlements, before finally alighting on the door.

 

"If the machine-spirits do not answer, there are alternative methods of ingress..."

 

He lifted his breaching augur.


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#1434
Xin Ceithan

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++Negative.++
the Techmarine replied over the vox.
After a moment, he added:
++Given the recent uprising and involvement of PDF forces in support of the xenos infiltration, our access to such information must be assumed both incomplete and out of date. Especially on the outlying locations. Our efforts to restore order and functionality to the local elements defending Syndalla have mainly been focused on the Capital.++
That seemed superfluous to the Iron Hand. Still...
+++ I suggest reconnaissance in force and to assume any installation to be potentially hostile and rigged to be denied to the enemy++
The rasp of the respirator cranked over the vox. Then...
+++I also suggest trying not to be blown up++ Sabaan continued. He could already picture the brash Dragon of Caliban rushing ahead. As for the others...
+++ We are rather limited in our options to replace your sacred warplate at this time.++
Another rasp.
++Again. +++

Edited by Xin Ceithan, 08 July 2019 - 05:07 PM.

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#1435
apologist

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[Placeholder]

Assuming we can't get in via access codes, Yeng has a breaching... er.... thingie (can't remember the name off-hand) – the Gatebreakers regularly use them to help Space Hulk ingress/progress. 

 

* Knocking on the door and asking politely.

 

* [Depending on Xin's post] Forcing the door with breaching device.

 

* Sudden thoughts on why this bunker isn't manned and armed – and a warning to the group.


Edited by Apologist, 04 July 2019 - 01:16 PM.

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+Death of a Rubricist+

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The Alien Wars – Blood Angels in the Nova Terra Interregnum | May You Live Forever – A narrative Iron Hands blog

Officio Monstrosa – Iron Warriors during the siege of Terra | The Praetors of Calth – Ultramarines from Crusade to Scouring


#1436
Mazer Rackham

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Akkad hefted the Flamer and nodded at Vorr, tapping his own left pauldron, the Red talon merely grunted and moved to behind the Astral Claw, brandishing the Astartes assault shotgun menacingly.  Akkad leaned forward and changed hands, the flamer moving into his left, ready to break right once through the door.

 

Opposite, Teralil stood rigidly with the Breaching Augur.  Akkad smiled under his helm as Apothecary Yeng coughed politely and wondered if they should announce themselves.  He nodded, If a knock and a shout would open the door, he was prepared to suffer it.  He fired the pilot light on the flamer into life - in case the answer was 'no'.

 

MR.


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#1437
Commissar Molotov

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Akkad, Tyber, Teralil, Yeng and Vorr:

The Breaching Auger is a monstrous thing, a device designed to shear through rockcrete and breach fortifications with ease. That some within the Deathwatch turn such devices into weapons to be used against the foes of the Emperor is merely a testament to the ingenuity and murderous intent of the Astartes. As Brother Teralil raises the drill, the lenses of his layered helm gleam with what might be considered joy.

A moment is all it takes for the auger to shred the locking mechanism of the firebase, the doors grinding open a moment later as Akkad and Yeng force them apart. The firebase itself is dark, lights flickering sporadically. Perhaps more importantly, it is silent. But the Space Marines of the Deathwatch have little to fear from spectres and ghosts - they move with a synchronised precision that belies their different origins or their lack of familiarity with one another.

It takes only seconds for the first body to be found.

The Guardsman's eyes are open wide, his mouth gaping, his face frozen in disbelief and terror. His uniform is dark with blood - as is the lower half of his body, half-way down a corridor. Arcing sprays of arterial blood dominate the walls and ceiling. As you move through the outpost you find all of its inhabitants torn to pieces. You see the scorches of las-fire throughout, evidence of desperate last stands and hold-fasts, but not a single sign of what they were fighting. No blood, no body parts. Nothing but murder.

As Yeng inspects the wounds, it is clear that they were inflicted with razor-sharp talons, consistent with the bladed limbs of the Tyranid. But the Firebase itself is secure - there is no sign of any breach to the walls other than that inflicted by the Obsidian Glaive Techmarine.

* * *


Montesa... (...and Greysight)

As you leave your meditation chamber aboard the Xenocide, still mulling over the import and significance of the strange tome found by Tyber, it does not escape your heightened senses that you are being followed. The Storm Son. You know that the descendants of Jaghatai Khan have a strange and innate - spiritual, even - connection with the warp, and a veneration of their storm-watching Librarian cadres. You know that the strange clump of hair bound in bronze upon his armour resonates with an unusual psychic force. This Marine - Greysight, you remind yourself - has been stoic and silent in the combined squad briefings, standing sentinel and speaking only rarely.

That you can detect the Storm Son's pursuit, you reflect, suggests that he wants you to be able to do so.

Solastion (and Sabaan and Varvost):

If you are frustrated by your inaction, then the Eradicator is even more so. He stalks back and forth like a caged Felid, waiting to strike. Varvost is, above all things, a weapon forged in the service of the Emperor, and weapons rust when left unused. You reflect that you could have dispatched him with Tyber and Akkad's force, but that three days together in the back of a Chimera may not be ideal for any of them.

Regardless, you turn back to the holo-displays of Beregar and the surrounding environs. The work to secure the city for a siege is nearing completion; the work to enact Greysight's thermobaric shield is less so. You have had many opportunities to talk with the Mechanicus of the Metallican District. This is a far cry from the normal work of tending to an agri-world, overseeing the planting and harvesting of crop varieties, adjusting fertiliser distribution to ensure yield production, tending to the repairs of macro-harvesters and the like. In the smallest sense, you wonder if this is what Sanguinius faced, aiding in the defense of Terra knowing that the oncoming storm of Horusian tratiors would soon break upon the shore. Even as your mind wonders across the name of the arch-traitor you feel your blood start to swell.

You see the blinking icon indicating Outpost 43. Surely Akkad's squad must have found something by now.
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QUOTE (voi shet magir @ May 31 2011, 05:38 AM
That is an unexpectedly strong assertion from a dead person.

#1438
Nineswords

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ENCIRCLED, WE SET up a perimeter and had taken whatever refuge we could in the still-burning ruins of a minor settlement. Devoid of civilians, its population had been massacred for sport and sustenance by the greenskins, to sate the insatiable appetite for violence that characterised their unholy jihad across the stars.

Lightning flashed through the rain, illuminating the greenskins as they marched, their war cries synchronised with the thumping and slurping of hob nailed boots through the black mud.

I stood with Khoisal on the first floor of a nondescript office that offered a paltry amount of cover, but its elevated position was ideally suited to pick off the enemy when they rushed us. It wouldn’t be long before the inevitable charge.

‘Hell’s teeth Cloud, I have a beggar’s sum of ammunition,’ moaned Khoisal, checking the last of his rounds.

‘It will be blade work soon,’ I agreed.

Khoisal craned his head to get a visual on Ulaansar and the others who were left. The hum of the rain was interrupted by the chatter of stubber fire, sending splinters of rubble high into the air. With a roar of triumph, the orks began their last charge.

‘Down! Do—‘ yelled Khoisal, before a round detonated inside his helmet, the force pirouetting Khoisal’s entire body before flopping uselessly onto the dust strewn floor.

Snarling a curse, I snatched my brother’s last clip of bolter rounds and made my way to the top of the stairs and away from the window, which was quickly being reduced to rubble by the sustained fire. Crouched down in the tumult, something caught my eye. It was small, and almost translucent. An arachnaed, scuttling around my armoured feet. I would've missed it but for the gifts bestowed to me by the Emperor. A sliver of thread appeared, and it began to spin a web, around and around my foot, as if to envelop me like it would a careless marmot upon the endless plains of Nakaris.

Below, the first of the greenskins had already reached our position. Shaking aside the distraction, I fired single shots, my first vaporising an ork’s head with a satisfying pop. Bellowing, six brutes bound across the room below, upturning tables and parchments as they make their way towards the stairs.

Servos in my power armour creaked under the stress of combat, as I too, made my way to meet the hain and my fate.

'Cloud.'

'Not now, Northwind. Help me, damn you,' I snapped, cursing as I aimed through my sight. My second and third shots stopped two more, though one of the hain had simply shrugged off an obscene amount of damage to its face, and stumbled behind its pack.

'Cloud,' murmured Khoisal again.

With a start, I glanced round to face my brother. He had been killed, just moments before. How coul–

I looked down, aiming my boltgun at the impossible. Crystalline arachnaeds, hundreds of them now, were crawling all over my armour, silvery threads of frost wrapping around me in a deadly tapestry and restricting my movement. I whirled, flicking off the ghostly spiders and freeing my arms so I could fight the hain. The resilience of the orks was astonishing, and five of them were storming up the stairs to tear me in half.

I kept firing as the first vaulted half the staircase in a single leap. It bellowed in animal rage as it raised its axe, a crude weapon fashioned from what looked like the armoured ablative plate of an Imperial transport.

'Cloud!' yelled Khoisal. I screamed in defiance as the axe chopped in a vicious arc.

And woke up.

Edited by Nineswords, 13 July 2019 - 08:09 PM.

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+++

'We are the sword of Jaghatai. Had you not created great sins, the Emperor would not have sent a punishment like us upon you.'

 Index Astartes: Storm Sons
+++

‘We estrange our fathers and forsake false brotherhoods. The War God cares not from whence we came, only that we fight.’
The Unbroken: A Renegade Cult of Obliteration

+++


#1439
Steel Company

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Tyber stood atop the Firebase waiting at the sealed hatch way for the pass codes from Solastion, only to hear the unmistakable sound of the a forced entry below. Sighing to himself, he used his vox unit to reach the command post, +Never mind on those codes, forced entry has been made.+ a dashed tone in his voice came across clearly across the network.

 

+++

 

Dropping off of the roof, he looked down the hole that was where the doors had been, narrow, even for mortals. He sighed again to himself as he placed his arming sword away and drew both bolt pistols, from what he could see this place would not give him much room to use his blades. Following the sounds of his brothers through the small halls that gave way to larger killing floors, ideal for dealing with a breaching scenario to give the defenders a bottle neck to cut down the attackers, pushing a body over with his foot, he reported in to their action Watch Sergeant, +They are all dead. From initial inspections they were killed by something in close quarters… As of yet we have seen no signs of forced entry aside from ours.+

 

He gave a heavy pause, a little his voice sounding unsure of his own words, +No indications on who or what did this, no bodies or blood aside from base line humans… Also no tracks in the blood that is on the floor… Yang might be able to give an idea how long these bodies have been here.+

 

Stepping into a side room, checking each corner as he did so to minimize possible attack vectors he began his search for any recordings of what went on in this outpost, everything here seemed wrong, Perhaps the monsters of the warp at work? He wondered to himself, sweeping the room one more time, before heading on to the next.


Edited by Steel Company, 08 July 2019 - 05:19 PM.

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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#1440
Mazer Rackham

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Akkad noticed the azure ping entering the building behind them through already cleared sectors.  It was the Ahu.  Akkad was staring down into a stairwell that tracked to the underground magazine and barracks.  At his elbow Vorr's helm swivelled to meet his gaze.

 

Entrails spattered the landing, smears and hand prints in red slapped wetly to the wall and floor.  The ferrocrete was slick with gore and purple-red viscera.  Each body was bisected, splayed open.  A decapitated skull lay smouldering with bio-acid from Tyranid jaws.

++Whatever cleared the bunker floor was killing stragglers.  This is where the massacre happened - the barrack room, where they were all asleep.  Ahu - welcome to the abattoir.++

 

Akkad took a step forward, nodded to Vorr and took another.

 

Going down.

 

MR.


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#1441
Steel Company

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+ Whatever cleared the bunker floor was killing stragglers.  This is where the massacre happened - the barrack room, where they were all asleep.  Ahu - welcome to the abattoir.+ Came the voice of his brother by choice over the vox.

 

Tyber couldn’t help but laugh a response, trying to hide a touch of unease in his voice with bold words, +Tuakana…+ pausing he kicked himself mentally again for using the words of the bay, +Ahu, I think so far I much prefer the last time I was in an abattoir, I killed two gene stealers in close quarters then… this feels wrong and wholly different kind of slaughter house.+

 

Entering the next room, it seemed to be a dormitory, bunks with foot lockers were positioned in even spacing. The cogitators in his armour overlaying and highlighting the dead guardsmen that were killed in their sleep here. Moving deeper into the hall, his sense picked up the sound of running water from the shower room.


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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#1442
Slips

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++Give me as much detail as you can, Brothers. I have an inkling as to what might be lurking but cannot yet be certain. My current concern now is that you are all possibly in the presence of Lictors.++ Solastion hurriedly replied on the vox.


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#1443
Mazer Rackham

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A rune blinked and Akkad kept the squad line open.  Tyber's voice, but harrowed by a nervous tremor in the chuckle, in the boastfulness.  Caution lurked in the bravado.

+Tuakana…+

+Ahu, I think so far I much prefer the last time I was in an abattoir, I killed two gene stealers in close quarters then… this feels wrong and wholly different kind of slaughter house.+

 

Then Solastion, hard on his heels.

 

++Give me as much detail as you can, Brothers. I have an inkling as to what might be lurking but cannot yet be certain. My current concern now is that you are all possibly in the presence of Lictors.++

 

Tyber was right - this was not the slaughter of the Genestealers - it was the silence of witnesses, the murder of a throat which could shout warning.

++I am uploading pict-capts now, My Healer++  A blink-click and the noospheric relay provided by the Techwright Teralil brought Solastion's eyes through Akkad's lenses, the electric sizzle of bio-haptic feedback as connection was made was uncomfortable, but necessary.

 

He was down a flight of steps already, Vorr covered him from the corner of the landing.  The flamer went forward, spilling a pool of blue light onto the sodden floor.  He could hear the running water now too.  A hissing, rushing of fluid, dripping and plopping onto ceramic floor tiles.

 

Drip...drip...drip...

 

MR.


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#1444
Slips

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As the pict-feed connection was established, Solastion reviewed the images of the slain guardsmen. One after another the telltale signs of deliberate cuts, slashes, perforations in and around throats, hearts and brains formed a pit in Solastions stomach.

 

The Assassin Bio-Forms had landed.

 

++Not good... Brothers be on your guard. Make sure to fully sweep and clear the bunker. No one is to ever be alone at any given time. If there are Lictors present, we cannot let them leave. They are chameleonic as well, therefore be all the more cautious. However, should you encounter more than 2 at any given time, commence exfiltration procedures and alert us. I will be monitoring your progress.++ he explained as the marines slowly made their way to the showers.

 

++Brother Varvost, see if you can secure us a transport. We may need to leave at a moments notice to provide aid for out Battle-Brothers.++


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#1445
Steel Company

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+Heard and understood Solastion.+ Tyber said in a sharper tone than he had meant, switching to local setting he continued +Ahu, give a squeeze in each room before we enter to try and force them out of hiding..+

 

Pressing the studs on the slides of his pistols, Tyber activated the under-barrel lights, sweeping the light beams over every part of the room as he moved, slowly, cautiously. He knew that sometimes flashlights could be used to tell the difference between real object and cameleoline material, perhaps this trick could work here too.


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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#1446
Mazer Rackham

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+Ahu, give a squeeze in each room before we enter to try and force them out of hiding..+

 

Akkad chuckled darkly, holding the flamer ready.  He peered round the corner, barrel of the flamer out in front of him and clear of muzzle obstructions.

+Worry not my kin, but getting through rooms not on fire is easier than when they're burning.+

 

Spoiler

 

Drip, drip...bloop.

 

MR.


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#1447
Reyner

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Lictors. The thought of those bioforms filled Vorr with a sense of loathing as his lip peeled back to a snarl, he almost spat but remembered his helm was locked over his shaven head.

+I've faced these monsters before. One once chewed through half of my Scout Squad before we cornered it and eventually put it down. They can contort their bodies to fit into gaps you wouldn't believe, watch the shadows and if the light from your lamps becomes distorted open fire.+

Vorr readied his shotgun, flicked the safety off and checked the action with a loud clunk. At least he was prepared for a close encounter.
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"I don't need my left arm to run." - Sergeant Arkad VII Legion bad-ass.


#1448
Steel Company

Steel Company

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As the gout of flame lept out, in the back of Tyber’s mind he heard the words of an old techmarine of the Dragons: Such a waste of precious fuel….

 

As his auto senses dimmed from the inrush of fire light so close by the movement of the shadows caught his attention, bringing his pistols to sight in on it he found nothing, just an empty corner of the room. With a mental sigh, he moved into the shower room, all that he found was a corpse of a female mortal, spine broken and protruding from the middle of her back. Rolling the body over, he knew her face, she had offered him soup after they had landed on this world.

 

Standing he moved and took what would’ve been her towel before kneeling beside her again, a look of surprise and pain frozen on her face. Tyber used the towel to cover her face and as much of her body as possible, while over his external vox he spoke with a deep sadness to his words +Avus iungere vobis per somnium.+

 

To his squadmates he added over their local network, +Nothing alive in her brothers.+


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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg

#1449
Mazer Rackham

Mazer Rackham

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The squad had swept the bastion.  every corner had been burned out, turned over, drilled through.  Finally they made their way into the generator room, deep below the surface, the marvels of the Mechanicum causing a passing glance from Teralil, but hardly a stirring of anything in the others.  A few thick dollops of purplish ichor marked the spt where the chewing jaws and raking claws had caught on metal rebutments as they had cut through the floor, in behind the rumbling generator.  The vibrations would have hidden the ingress.

 

+Xenos filth.+ Akkad spat into the hole.  Tactical lights and the azure burn of a pilot light fell away down a sheer twenty-feet drop and then a series of angular twists and turns.  Some body parts had been pulled down as the beast had retreated, most likely to power another assault elsewhere.

 

++My Healer, it may be wise to alert all other Outposts on this continent and have them check in every thirty minutes.++  He took a Krak grenade from his belt and unscrewed the half empty canister from the Flamer, reaching for a strap from a dead soldiers' webbing.  He tied the two together and clicked the lever for twenty seconds.  He let it drop, hearing the IED clang and rattle against the walls of the slithering tunnel until he could hear no more.  He pulled a damaged generator plate from a pile of scrap and heaved a large cog onto it with some effort.  A muted thump and a tremor sounded low beneath them his armour recorded a temperature spike and the shift of earth as a tunnel collapsed.

 

++Let's go, back to the city.++

 

MR.


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#1450
Steel Company

Steel Company

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Tyber was about to speak in protest to Akkad, they should have followed the beast down into the tunnels, tracked it down and killed it, remove it as a threat. She deserved better the back of his mind cried at him. The crump of the underground explosion halted that protest in his throat, turning to head back into the barricks, he added some thoughts to the squad, +We should gather up as much weapons and ammo as we can take back with us, the mortals will need them…. I will walk to allow for more cargo.+

 

He found himself standing in the showers again, over her body again, looking down at it. He reached over and turned the water off before kneeling beside her again. Once down, he folded the towel down from her face, her open lifeless blue eyes wide, her red hair damp with water and blood, unbound on the floor of the shower, slowly he half lifted her head, neck and upper torso to remove an ident tag from the chain around her neck. The little piece of metal in his hand, he placed her back down gently and covered her again before rolling the little tag in his hand to read it: Alicia Sanders.

 

He knew of the name, named for one of the cursed brides of the Emperor whom the mortals had made a saint. He removed his helm and placed it beside him as he spoke in a low tone to her corps, “You were named for someone that should not be… Yet you offered some of what little you had to a stranger, you were worthy of a better end.”

 

He touched the top of her hed, before standing again and replacing his helm, before leaving the shower room Tyber attached the ident tag to his sword belt. Stopping at the every corps in the outpost he was much more mechanical with removing the tags, placing them in a belt pouch.

 

+++

 

Tyber tossed the last belt of stubber ammo into the back of 2-12, turning to look back at the outpost, he fired his jump pack to get to the top to lower the flag and fold it neatly before placing it on one of the seats in 2-12. +Let us be done with this place, I will do my best to keep up.+ he said as he started to walk back in the direction of the city along the road.


Edited by Steel Company, 09 July 2019 - 05:36 PM.

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To all you Space Wolf Players... Its called a Razor and the Soap isn't a Daemon.
--Dremen


The Iron Hands, they are the real emo marines. Seriously. The Dark Angels aren't the ones who sit around cutting off bits of themselves, wearing black, and complaining about weakness and ennui...

--Octavulg





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